


Smooth Q

by earlybloomingparentheses



Series: The Sibilant Series [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: A bit of actual (eventual) communication, Dominant Bond, Feminization, Humiliation, Limousine Sex, M/M, PWP, Power Dynamics, Submissive Q, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 12:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“If you’re jealous of the women I fuck, Q,” Bond says in his gravel voice, “you might as well be one of them.”</i>
</p>
<p>In which Bond makes Q play dress-up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smooth Q

**Author's Note:**

> This work follows "Soft Q," though it can be read on its own. Warnings for consensual but not-planned-in-advance power play also apply to this fic, though less strongly than for the first one.

A week after their last encounter, Bond shows up at Q’s flat. It’s Saturday night at 5 p.m., and he’s dressed head to toe in a tux, a bottle of wine in one hand and a bulging package in the other.

“What—?”

“My presence is required at a disgustingly posh society function tonight.”

“Required—” 

“By M, yes, but it’s not for a mission. He wants to show me off to certain other department heads. I need an escort.” 

Q blinks at him, entirely taken aback. “You want— _me_ to—to be your _date_?”

Bond smirks, eyes glinting wickedly, and pushes the package toward Q. 

With some trepidation, Q pulls open the white paper bag. Nestled amongst tissue paper is a long flat box. He places it on the table and, still utterly bemused, removes the lid. 

Inside is a sleek gold evening gown.

Shocked, his eyes fly up to Bond’s. 

“There’s more,” Bond informs him.

Q, dazed, returns to the bag. A shoebox reveals gold high heels; another narrow box, white lace panties; a small black case, lipstick, mascara, and false scarlet fingernails; and, below that, in a plastic shopping bag, a women’s razor.

Bond’s gaze is steady on Q. Q’s head is swimming, his throat dry. “I…” 

“If you’re jealous of the women I fuck, Q,” Bond says in his gravel voice, “you might as well be one of them.”

Q turns away abruptly, breathing hard. This is a new level, even for Bond. The sheer _presumption_ of it, the arrogance, to think that Q would…that he would…

Q realizes, suddenly, that he hasn’t put down the razor. He is running his thumb up and down the smooth curve of its pink handle. He whirls back around and Bond is watching him with a smug smile on his face.

Q’s stomach curdles, heat flaring in his cheeks.

“Be a good girl for me, Q,” Bond says softly, placing each item carefully back in the bag. He steps over to Q and takes his hand, still clutching the razor, in his own strong grip. “Let me see you all dolled up, so I can show you off, then take you home and wreck your pretty self.”

Q whimpers. Bond coaxes the razor from his fingers, places it back in the bag, and then hands the bag to Q.

“Off you go.”

Q turns, still dazed, and walks to the bathroom. His blood is running hot, then cold, then hot again. He shuts the door and leans back against it, heart pounding.

The dress is stunning. Q slips his fingers through its silky folds. It’s slender, clingy without being quite form-fitting, the skirt a waterfall of glistening fabric and the straps the loose, functionless kind meant to fall down past the shoulders and display the wearer’s neckbones to best effect.

Q hates men’s formal wear, has only worn a tux twice in his life, skips suits and ties for rumpled cardigans because the former make him look even younger and scrawnier than he is, a boy trying to play at being a man. They swallow him up, even tailored within an inch of their life; they rest too low on his nonexistent hips, puff out over his skinny stomach, give him the scarecrow floppiness of a Guy ready for Bonfire Night.

Q thinks of James Bond, handing him the package with that arrogant expression on his face, like even though Q has never even considered putting on a dress before, he knows he’ll do whatever Bond asks. Q’s ears burn. Of course he will, because it’s Bond. But he could also rub himself off against the silky gold dress right here in the bathroom because it’s so fucking hot Q wants to weep.

He shucks his clothes and turns on the shower. 

He soaps his body down, washes his hair. Then he picks up the floral-scented bottle of shaving gel Bond had left in the bag with the razor, and swallows hard.

He squirts some into his hand, then rubs it all over his left leg, lathering it up. The scent of lavender fills the steamy shower. He props his leg awkwardly up against the edge of the tub, but the stream of water hits him too directly, washing the foam from his skin before he can even get started.

_How the fuck do women do this?_ he wonders, annoyed, readjusting to another angle; in this position, he gets an eyeful of water. He picks up the shaving gel again and the can slips from his grasp, hitting him in the foot. 

His eyes water and his cheeks burn. He imagines Bond watching him with a smirk on his face—watching Q naked, wet, struggling. Q takes a deep breath, resting his forehead briefly against the shower wall. 

Carefully, he sits down at the front of the tub, so that the water falls mostly over his back, and his legs are bent before him. He squirts more shaving gel into his hand, then rubs it slowly over his skin, feeling the suds catch in his thin hairs as the foam builds up.

He picks up the razor. He swallows, running his thumb up and down its curved pink handle. Bond’s face blooms in Q’s head, his eyes intent, hooded. Q’s cock twitches, going a little bit hard. He places the razor alongside his ankle and runs it gently up his skin.

The hairs fall away in clumps. He runs another stripe up next to the first, revealing a second patch of pale white skin. His breath hitches. He holds the blade under the water, rinsing off the built-up hair and foam, and then turns back to his leg and does it again.

It takes a long time. Q slides his fingers along newly-smooth skin as he pulls the razor up through thick patches of hair, rinses, and repeats. He rubs foam into the V of his thighs, shaves the tender spots around his cock, his balls, running his fingers across the slick surface as his eyelids flutter. He shapes the edges of his pubic hair so it is a small, neat triangle. He feels carefully for any stray hairs on the back of his legs, under his knees, and then, when he is satisfied he is smooth as a bar of soap he rinses the foam from his legs and runs his hands all the way up from his ankles to his crotch. His pulse is racing. 

When he turns the water off, the bathroom is thick with steam and his cock is half-hard and heavy between his legs. Q stands naked in front of the mirror, feeling the strangeness of his thighs rubbing together, and takes up his own razor to shave his face. After he is finished, he stares at his bare chest, where a few dark hairs cluster; with something of a thrill, he brings the blade to his skin and shaves them off as well. 

He can’t hear anything from the kitchen. He’s surprised and, if he is being honest, a little disappointed that Bond hasn’t come to watch. But perhaps he wants to see…the finished product.

Q swallows. He lifts the gold gown from the box and holds it up.

Something burning and complicated twists through him as he steps into the dress, a creeping sensation that spreads like a blush through the arches of his feet, into his belly, up his neck. For a long moment he can’t bring himself to look in the mirror. Embarrassment crashes through him like a wave, mixing with whatever strange and heady arousal he’d been feeling; not because it’s embarrassing for a man to wear a dress, not because he doesn’t want this, but because of Bond, his knowing smirk, his self-assurance, his easy declaration that he’s going to _show Q off_ —the way he hands Q the tools to strip himself bare, white and smooth and vulnerable, and knows that Q will do it. It’s the strange, alien slide of the fabric along his smooth legs, the way it makes him hyperaware of his skin, his body, without the layer of hair to protect him. It’s the way Q’s gut seems to coil in on itself as he pulls up the white lace panties, sheer, paper-thin, and his cock comes to rest snug inside them, a little too constricted for comfort.

Q raises his head, finally, and looks at himself in the mirror. His long white throat disappears fluidly into the gold gown; his bare shoulders look graceful, his neckbones delicate—not scrawny, somehow, but fragile—fragile in that delicious feminine way that makes men like James Bond want to smash them into bits.

Q shudders with anticipation.

He doesn’t bother with his glasses, but puts his contacts in instead. Then he opens the black makeup case and surveys its contents.

Q has never worn makeup, but he has steady hands. He rims his eyes with eyeliner, and darkens his already thick lashes with mascara. He brushes a subtle sheen of blush across his cheekbones. The lipstick, deep red, goes on last.

It feels smooth and strange and sticky on his lips. He blinks at himself in the mirror and flushes. He ducks his head quickly and stares at his hands as he applies the false nails—the same deep shade as the lipstick. His fingers transform from skinny and knobby into long and elegant in front of his eyes. He looks back in the mirror.

He is really going to do this.

He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Time to—to show himself off.

He opens the bathroom door. There’s another box on the floor.

Q crouches down—a difficult maneuver in a slinky dress, one that threatens to send him careening off-balance—and picks it up. Inside, on a white Styrofoam head, is a dark wig.

Q inhales sharply through his nose. Somehow, this, this is too much—Q squeezes his eyes shut, breathing hard.

“Put it on, Q,” comes Bond’s voice, traveling clear and sharp down the hall. Q flushes, feeling caught; slowly, he pulls the wig from the box.

It’s deep chestnut, the same color as Q’s hair, and it’s arranged in an elegant bun, a few loose curls framing the foam head’s face. Q tugs it free, and as his stomach flips and flutters, pulls it on over his own hair.

He looks nearly unrecognizable.

“Come out here, Q, so I can look at you.”

Bond’s voice is like a hand between Q’s legs. His cock jerks, pushing against the lace panties. Q bends down again—he’d forgotten the shoes—and pulls the heels onto his feet. They are tight against his toes and strange; he wobbles for a moment, and then rights himself.

He looks like every girl James Bond has ever fucked.

“I said come here.”

Q walks out the door and into the kitchen.

Bond is drinking from a wineglass, the half-empty bottle next to him on the table. His eyes flare when Q comes into view, but he finishes his sip, then holds the glass out at his side.

“Well, well, well.”

Q licks his lips, then stops quickly when he tastes lipstick. Bond’s eyes travel up and down his body appraisingly, with the intensity of a predator surveying its prey.

“Did you like shaving for me, Q?” Bond asks, his voice a lazy drawl. “Are you smooth and pink between your legs now? Ready for my fingers to slide under that dress?”

Q blushes furiously. “Yes,” he says, barely audibly.

“I thought so.” Bond smiles, then frowns. “You don’t have much in the chest, you know.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be done. I’m sure you’d still love me to suck your pretty pink nipples.”

Q shudders, and feels the silky fabric of the dress move against his chest.

“You’d let me, too. In the middle of the party we’re going to, right where everyone could see. You’d let me slip my hand under your dress and make you moan.”

Q moans now, his heartbeat quickening.

“Come be a good girl and sit on my lap.”

Q moves to Bond, walking gingerly in the high heels. Bond spreads his legs and Q perches awkwardly on one of them, Bond’s hand resting at the small of his back.

“Have some wine, baby doll.”

Bond holds his glass up to Q’s lips and Q drinks, the smooth liquid running down his throat and warming his belly. When Bond takes the glass away, there’s a lipstick mark along the edge.

“Now,” Bond says, “I’m going to show you off. And all these powerful politicians, all these CEOs, all these rich and influential people—every single one of them will know that when the party is over, I’m going to take you home and fuck you till you cry.” He leans in, his breath hot against Q’s ear. “Because I’m James Bond.”

Q whimpers.

 

 

 

The event is just as posh and self-important as Bond described. Middle-aged men in tuxes, who radiate wealth and power, stroll the hall with young women on their arms, draped in jewels and designer dresses, and Bond was right: Q is quite sure that they will be unwrapped like parcels by their escorts when the evening is through. There’s little difference when the occasional powerful woman walks by; the young, blindingly handsome men they are with will undoubtedly receive the same treatment. And these pretty young things seem both marked territory and, somehow, common property: look but don’t touch seems to be the rule, which Q discovers as countless bigwigs run their eyes frankly over his body.

It’s humiliating; he is _Q_. He could destroy them all and they’d never even know it was him. But tonight, he is no one, just a pretty thing in a slinky dress.

_Bond’s_ pretty thing in a slinky dress.

How many of those has he had in his life? And Q is just the current one, the next in a long line of girls Bond has used and thrown away.

_Christ_ , surely there’s an empty coatroom somewhere that they could disappear to? The waiting is killing him.

But Bond is enjoying it, every second—enjoying torturing Q with little touches, enjoying ignoring him for the men he’s supposed to be schmoozing with, acting as though he’s an accessory, like a gun or a shiny car. Bond makes him walk over to M to say hello; Q has a moment of deep panic, but M’s eyes skate over him with sardonic indifference, completely failing to recognize him, before he thanks Bond for actually showing up tonight.

“You want me to fuck you,” Bond whispers in Q’s ear as M walks away. “In front of M and everyone else.”

Q grits his teeth.

“To lay you down on that table, hike up your dress, and put my cock inside you while they all watch.”

Q inhales deeply through his nose.

“To smear your lipstick all over your face as I dig my tongue into your mouth. To pull your dress down and suck your tits. To make you _scream_.”

“Please…”

“Please? Yeah? You wanna beg for it? For me to use you like the toy they all know you are?”

Q may have succeeded in avoiding attention thus far, but if Bond keeps talking like this, someone is bound to notice that Bond’s escort has a very obvious erection.

“ _Please_.”

“Fine.” Bond snaps upright, suddenly all business. “I’ll have them call the limo. And in five minutes, you’ll be in the backseat, dripping all over your pretty lace panties.”

Q’s heart stops.

Bond is as good as his word. Mere minutes later, he’s stretched out on his back on the cool leather seat, the soundproof divider up between them and the driver, and Bond has his wrists pinned beside his head.

“I love a good fuck in a limo,” Bond breathes. “Always gets women nice and worked up.”

Q squirms. His dress is still covering his legs but he feels so _bare_ , the fine material rubbing up against his smooth legs, the panties too tiny to do anything but push uncomfortably down against his aching cock. Bond is poised above him, legs on either side, his hands at Q’s wrists the only thing touching him.

“Please,” he moans, embarrassed but past the point where he can keep quiet.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.”

“Do good girls talk like that?” Bond asks, raising an eyebrow.

“The ones you know do,” Q says through gritted teeth, unable to stop his pelvis from straining upwards toward Bond’s. “I’ve heard you fuck them, remember?”

Bond lunges down and crushes his mouth against Q’s. Q gasps, feeling his lipstick smear, and opens up for Bond. Bond thrusts his tongue into Q’s throat, bites at his lips, growls deep in his chest and keeps at it until Q is panting for air.

Bond pulls back, his mouth smeared with red. It looks like blood. His eyes are fierce, dangerous.

“I could break you in half right now.”

“I know,” Q whispers, and pulls Bond down again to kiss him.

Bond’s teeth and tongue move aggressively against Q’s as his hand trails down, along Q’s face, his throat, his exposed neckbones, and slips down under the front of his dress. He pinches Q’s nipple, hard, and Q cries out.

“Little slut,” Bond pants, “you love my hands on your tits.”

“Yes,” Q gasps, as Bond’s lips mouth along his jawline, his neck, nipping at the curve of his throat. Bonds finger’s twist Q’s nipples cruelly, each jolt of pain going straight to Q’s cock.

“You gonna give it up for me?”

“Yes.”

“You gonna give it up for me like they all do?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Bond pulls back and grabs Q’s ankles. Q rises to his elbows with some difficulty and watches, his heart racing.

“Look at your pretty little ankles.”

Bond picks up Q’s left foot, still encased in the gold high heel, and brings it to his lips. He kisses Q’s calf, his mouth strangely warm and smooth against Q’s hairless skin. Q shudders.

“Pretty little legs.”

Bond runs his hand up Q’s calf, pushing the dress up past Q’s knee. He kisses the skin there, stroking a little with his tongue.

“Let me see your pretty little panties,” he breathes, and hoists up Q’s arse long enough to push the dress up past his waist, where it rests, bunched, just under his nipples.

Q’s smooth legs lay open, bare, exposed, all the way up to his crotch. The white lace panties bulge out where his cock is straining to get free. Bond runs a finger over the delicate waistband, thin as a string where it meets Q’s upper thighs.

“You’re dripping wet,” Bond observes. “Filthy.”

Q shudders. Bond brings his head down between Q’s legs and mouths at Q’s cock through the thin fabric. Q shouts and kicks out accidentally. Bond reaches swiftly out and holds his legs still.

“Easy.”

He presses his mouth down harder. Q wants nothing more than to get his cock free from the constraining panties, but Bond makes no move to do so, licking and sucking and even nipping gently at him through the lace. Q moans, frustrated tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“So wet,” Bond breathes. “You’re always so wet, Q.”

Q’s face burns: it’s true.

“You like being my girl, Q?”

Q turns his head to the side, against the leather back of the seat.

“Answer me.”

Q squeezes his eyes shut.

“I said, you like being my girl?”

“Yes,” Q whispers.

“You’ve got lipstick all over your face,” Bond says, amusement coloring his voice. “You look like a mess.”

Q’s cheeks burn in humiliation.

“Put your pretty heels over my shoulders,” Bond says, pulling off Q’s damp lace panties, “and let me fuck you till I show you what a mess really is.”

Q does it. Heaven help him, he does it, lifting his smooth naked legs over Bond’s tuxedo-jacketed shoulders, watching as Bond undoes his trousers button and pulls his big heavy cock free. He watches Bond pull a condom and a bottle of lube from a small compartment in the door—Christ, he really must make a habit of this—and get himself ready.

“Open yourself up,” Bond breathes, “I wanna see your fingers inside you.”

Q whimpers. Bond pours lube liberally across Q’s fingers and then, his belly roiling with embarrassment, Q reaches his hand down between his spread legs, over his exposed arse, and presses inside himself.

He gasps a little; the false fingernail scrapes against him uncomfortably. But he twists his finger and Bond swallows visibly, so he keeps on going.

After a moment he has to look away; Bond’s gaze is too intense. He squeezes his eyes shut and adds a second finger, stretching himself, feeling Bond’s eyes riveted to where his fingers disappear into his own arsehole.

“Enough,” Bond says sharply, and Q immediately pulls out. He winces—too fast—and then he feels the head of Bond’s cock against him, hot, slick, feeling impossibly large.

“Look at me.”

Q opens his eyes. Bond pushes home.

He fucks him deep and hard, slower than last time, each thrust shaking Q’s body back against the seat. Bond leans in until Q is practically bent in half, his open thighs burning with the stretch. Bond pins Q’s hands at his sides.

“You like it when I make you squirm,” Bond says through strained breaths.

Q swallows.

“You like it when I make you feel ashamed.”

A flash of heat passes through Q. He nods, blushing even as he does so.

Bond thrusts a little harder. “You’d like me to fuck you in this limo and then leave you on your doorstep without so much as a goodnight. You’d love it if I dropped you off at the corner and made you walk, lipstick all over your face, your dress stained and rumpled, your panties long gone.” He draws a harsh breath. “You’d love me to meet you at work Monday morning with a contemptuous little smile and then pretend none of this ever happened.”

Q’s eyes are streaming, from humiliation or overstimulation, he can’t tell. Bond is still fucking him rhythmically, panting through his words.

“You— _are—_ a—little—slut.”

Q, face wet, cheeks hot, legs stretched wide and arsehole burning, nods once, and Bond comes hard, spasming inside Q, arms shaking as he holds himself up through the shocks. Q rides it out, whimpering, so close but not quite able to come untouched, shit, _shit—_

Bond pulls out, bends down, and swallows Q’s cock.

Q shrieks, honest-to-goodness shrieks, and with a few deft twists of Bond’s tongue he’s coming hot and hard down his throat.

Q lies there for a long minute, mind blank and buzzing, shut eyes dancing with stars. He is dimly aware of Bond moving around him.

“Q,” Bond says, not ungently, after an uncertain amount of time. “I believe we’re at your flat.”

Q opens his eyes. He can’t see anything out the windows but dark sky from this position, but the limo has stopped moving.

Bond is looking down at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Wincing, sore, damp all over, Q pulls himself to a seated position. His dress falls back down to his thighs. His wig is askew; he has lost a couple false nails. He has no doubt his face is a wreck of mascara trails and lipstick smears.

Bond still says nothing, and Q wonders if he really is going to kick him out of the limo, make him take the private elevator up to his flat alone, in his heels, with no underwear. But Bond moves then, shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket, and places it around Q’s shoulders.

“One moment.”

He takes a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes Q’s face. Shocked, Q lets him, staring as Bond performs this unprecedented act of kindness.

“Let’s get you upstairs.”

Bond helps him out of the limo, supporting his weight and shielding him from curious eyes as they cross the pavement to Q’s private entrance—no need to bother with doormen tonight. Q raises his fingertips automatically to the security box, and when they get in the elevator he performs the retinal scan. It’s a long ride to the top. Both of them are silent on the way.

They step out into Q’s sleek flat. Q wobbles, and Bond steadies him as he leans against the counter and shucks his heels. Exhausted, Q falls into a chair.

“I don’t actually treat my partners badly, you know.”

Q blinks up at Bond, whose face is set and stubborn. A wave of incredulousness eclipses much of Q’s confusion and postcoital fuzziness. “You seduce people to get state secrets out of them, and then you leave them. Or worse. Much worse.”

Bond lets out a surprised bark. “Fair enough. But I mean during sex.”

“I…all right?” Q is unsure what exactly Bond is driving at here.

“I’ve been treating you like shit because you seemed to want me to,” Bond says impatiently. “But I’m not as cruel a man as you appear to think.”

Q sucks in a breath. “I—oh.” He stares at Bond, uncertain, real embarrassment—not in the least arousing—rising up inside him. “I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s—” Bond runs a hand through his mussed hair. “I’m not asking for an apology. I just wanted you to know that—this is a kind of game, for me. Not a prerequisite.”

“A prerequisite for—what?” Q asks, wide-eyed.

“Having sex with you.”

_Oh_. “You…you mean…”

“I mean I’ll fuck you however you want, with or without the attitude. And I’m not planning on walking away and pretending this never happened.”

Q is speechless. Bond— _James Bond_ —he wants—he won’t—

“I want this,” Q says in a rush. “I’ve liked all of it, except the part where I actually thought you were going to get bored and leave me.”

Bond’s lips curve upwards. “But you like me to pretend I’m going to, don’t you?”

Q flushes. “Yes.”

“Well then.” Bond gets to his feet. “Drink some water, Q. Eat something. Maybe take a bubble bath. You gonna be okay?”

Q nods.

“Good.” He turns to go.

“So—” Q can’t help but say, “so, this isn’t over?”

Bond turns slowly back around, a predatory smile spreading across his face. “Not even close, Q. I’ve been itching to see you crawl.”

Heat flushes through Q, burning his cheeks, making his stomach turn over. Bond gives him a last satisfied look, and then heads out the door. 

“See you Monday,” he calls, and Q can’t help but grin.


End file.
